A Stranger Country
by Neko-chan -Silvered Tongue
Summary: It's a long, slow journey to awareness for someone who is so willfully blind. But, eventually, sight will come.


_Title:_ A Stranger Country_  
>Author:<em> Neko-chan_  
>Fandom:<em> Durarara!_  
>Rating:<em> T, eventual M_  
>Pairing:<em> Izaya/Shizuo; Shizuo/Izaya_  
>Disclaimer:<em> Not at all mine~_  
>Summary:<em> It's a long, slow journey to awareness for someone who is so willfully blind. But, eventually, sight will come.

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><p><em>Prompt from drrrkink meme:<em> Izaya/Shizuo - romance, realization, ship manifesto

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><p><strong>A Stranger Country<strong>

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><p><em>A single event can awaken within us a stranger totally unknown to us. To live is to be slowly born. <em>  
>~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery<p>

:

Izaya had always viewed it as a game:

True, it was a game that he took more pleasure in than Shizuo ever would, but that was beside the point-or, perhaps, that really _was_ the entire point of the game. "How long will it take before Shizu-chan manages to track me down?" was the question that was regularly posed each and every time the informant crossed the invisible barrier between "his town" and "Shizuo's town," skipping across that drawn line to enter into enemy territory, to _play _in Ikebukuro.

"Games" and "business" had always had such an equally invisible line between the two to Izaya, as well, division blurring until one bled into the other and there _was_ no clear distinction: it was _fun_ to watch people, gathering information on all of his precious humans; patterns emerged, behaviors that only _he_ had grown privileged to notice, and it was a _game_ to predict what others would do and then sell the information based upon his guesses-guesses that were perpetually correct because Izaya was a perfectionist at heart, the grand Chessmaster who moved individual pieces behind the scenes and without their being aware of the larger _scheme_, the greater _plan_.

But still, the indirect game of "tag" that Izaya always instigated whenever he came to Ikebukuro had always been his favorite of the brunette's many games, and the best part of the game was that the dumb Beast of Ikebukuro never realized that his role was forever the same: he was, without exception, "it."

It was these thoughts that brought a slow curl of self-satisfaction, of self-indulged pleasure, to Izaya's vulpine mouth, and a pair of crimson eyes narrowed behind a set of slim binoculars as the brunette watched his blonde enemy on the street below. _For now_, Shizu-chan was still completely unaware of Izaya's presence: maybe the beast was having an off day and his nose wasn't nearly as sensitive as it otherwise normally was~? Regardless, Izaya couldn't help but feel a giddy sort of accomplishment at the fact that he still hadn't been spotted by the brute: if he had been a cat and Shizuo a dog, Izaya would have been sprawled high above the latter at the very top of a fence, tail twitching in amusement while weighing the consequences of whether or not it would be considered worthwhile to antagonize the still-unaware protozoan creature below.

All thoughts soon came to a halt, however.

The slouching blonde's head came jerking up, hearing something that Izaya couldn't over the rumbling, familiar roar of the city, and the brunette could see Shizuo's shoulders rise and fall in an almost helpless shrug-as if he was resigning himself to the upcoming events-and then Mairu and Kururi were _there_. Both girls were smiling up at Ikebukuro's Fortissimo, one girl attaching herself to each of Shizuo's arms, Mairu chattering amiably while Kururi's lips would move from time to time-occasionally speaking to Shizuo, though most of her attention was obviously on the tight hold that she had around the blonde's arm.

The beast shook his head-just _what_ were they talking about, mmm~?-and though the frown that he gave to Izaya's little sisters was quite obviously exasperated, the skin around his eyes wasn't tight the way that it always was when he had to deal with the eldest Orihara sibling. And when all three walked comfortably towards a streetside vendor, Shizu-chan shortening his stride so that Mairu and Kururi could easily keep up, the smile that the beast gave to Izaya's sisters when he bought them ice cream cones was almost… _fond_.

It took a sudden, sharp pain shooting through Izaya's jaw before the brunette realized that he was gritting his teeth.

:

Every person has dreams.

Once upon a time ago, when someone had asked Orihara Izaya what he wanted to be in life, he would have given a much different answer than "information broker." Instead, he would have replied with the fact that he intended on becoming a mathematician.

Dreams change, however, and Izaya's dream was no different.

He had discovered early on that numbers were boring. He supposed that a person could make the argument that they were real, but if the brunette was completely honest with himself, he knew that he would never agree with that particular belief. Numbers were, in the end, too symbolic, too abstract for him to take a genuine interest in. They were _there_, and that was it: while Izaya knew that they could be manipulated and played with, variables shifting from one part of the equation to the other until everything _clicked_ and made sense-if only to him-they were still too dry for him to be able to generate any genuine interest in. There was no _visceral_ fascination, and the numbers remained cold and dead and uninteresting in the overall _game _of things.

It hadn't been much long after that, however, that Izaya had begun to notice just how similar _people_ were to numbers-just how similar people were to _variables_.

They were individuals, true, and people oftentimes liked thinking of themselves as that individual rather than a collective whole; but _people_ were predictable because _people_-humanity overall-could be divided up into, seen as a collection of different variables: symbols that were unpredictable in the beginning and chaotic, a puzzle that couldn't easily be solved until someone finally came across an equation-then plugged in the numbers, did the computation, and everything then came together in a way that _made sense_. Actions, reactions, ulterior motives, subconscious reasonings: all variables, all fitting together into this organized little problem in such a way that Izaya could take a step back and _see_-could _predict_-how A plus B divided by Y equaled Z.

Once the psychological variables had been decided upon and the universal equation had been broken down, it had been all too easy to figure out how to fit _himself_ into the equation to get the best result possible: variables had grown fewer and fewer as Izaya learned to narrow reactions down, going from predicting the _most likely_ reaction to _knowing_ what a person would do given A, B, and C.

And when Izaya had learned-quickly, effectively, and _thoroughly_-how to ensure that he always got a positive answer for each and every equation, he had taught himself how to remove his presence _completely_ from the equation, becoming the outside influence that drove the variables in certain ways but never completely touching any of them. He manipulated people not only because, in the end, it was something _fun _to do but also because he wanted to see if any of the established variables would ever deviate from the norm: that one numeral that would somehow throw his entire equation off course.

It never happened.

Izaya would smile, would charm, would coax and sympathize and relate and _befriend_, and people would fall for it, would turn into some strange mix of number-and-person-easily predictable and just as desperately loved by the mahogany-eyed teen-and then just as easily destroyed while smiling like a devil throughout it all.

Everything had been calculable.

Everything had been foreseeable.

Everything had been _boring_.

And then Shinra had introduced Izaya to Shizuo and things had changed. Before ever getting the chance to even say a _word_, without even being properly introduced, Shizuo had glared up at the school window where Izaya had stood waiting, watching for the other to finally come and join him and Shinra, and then the dumb beast had flatly refused Izaya's proffered hand.

"I don't like touching fleas."

It had been _infuriating_: here, all this time, Izaya had waited for that single mercurial component to come along and change the equation to make it _interesting_ again, and instead it had appeared in the form of some protozoan brute who threw _all _of Izaya's carefully cultivated equations off by refusing to be manipulated-for no apparent reason at all.

Izaya had done _nothing_ to garner such a negative reaction; Shizuo just _knew_.

And it didn't matter that the beast soon enough fell into easily predictable patterns-appear, snark, taunt, enrage the beast, dodge the various flying objects (and people)-because it was the original equational kink that bothered Izaya the most and caused the scenario to play over and over again in his mind when distractions faded away and all that was left was the quietly burning _hate_ at seeing the first unearned flare of dislike in the beast's eyes.

:

Forcing himself to unclench his jaw was a surprisingly Herculean effort, Izaya discovered quite quickly as he continued to watch his sisters chat with Shizu-chan. It became even more so when the beast's features softened in an _almost_ human manner as he glanced down at Kururi, saying something that caused her to smile in a way that showed that she was very obviously comfortable around the blonde brute. However, it was only when Mairu glanced at Shizu-chan in an overly-familiar too-sly way before making an offhand comment that caused the blonde to flush for some reason or another-it was only then that Izaya put away his binoculars, deciding that playing hide-and-seek was getting to be relatively boring when the person _seeking_ didn't know that there was someone _hiding _that they needed to find.

Hands in the pockets of his jacket, Izaya traipsed down the stairs of the small café, steps nearly skipping as he headed down to the street level, and made his way through the heavy traffic on the busy street-managing to avoid pedestrian and automobile alike.

"Ne~" the crimson-eyed informant called out when he was certain that Shizu-chan was in hearing range. "Mairu! Kururi! What is it that you think you're doing~? You know better than to play with mongrels that you come across on the street. They might have _rabies_."

And when Shizuo ripped a street sign from the concrete, lunging forward with a twisted snarl upon his face while Izaya danced gracefully away from the wild swing, the broker couldn't help but feel _relaxed_ as the predictable, foreseeable, _familiar _pattern between him and Shizu-chan began to once more re-emerge.

:

_Truth_.

Truth was…

What was "truth"?

"Truth" had such a fluid, malleable, constantly shifting meaning.

It hadn't taken Izaya long after accepting his first job to realize this: information had so many interpretations, so many unique meanings for so many _different_ people. The broker might offer the same gossipy tidbit to three _very_ dissimilar people, and each person would take away their _own_ truth from the words that he would share. Words were words, but it was the _individual_ that would attach significance to those words.

Nothing was ever what it seemed and nothing was ever, _ever_ as simple as it appeared to be: there were thick and thin stratas, layers that one was expected to dig through to reach the gleaming, valuable nuggets of interpretative "truth" that meant so much to so few people; Izaya had learned the best ways in how to mine those nuggets, offering up the pieces of pyrite to those who wouldn't appreciate what it was that they _could_ have been given-and all the while keeping the true gold for himself.

And yet… even _knowing_ that the kept pieces were valuable, Izaya still couldn't truly bring himself to understand _why _it was that they were. it was simple enough, easy enough, to keep the acknowledgement and leave it at that: the understanding was unnecessary, just as the soul-deep drive that goaded his humans into certain actions: in the end, it was the end result that was what was most important to Izaya, the climax that he looked forward to the most.

A year ago, Izaya had sold the same bit of information to both Shiki's group and the main rival yakuza gang: he had come across the fact that a third, neutral party was bringing in imports from Ecuador and managed to come across the list of what most of the shipment had comprised of. The rival group had hit the shipment because of the value of each contraband item. Shiki's group had hit it because they knew that their rivals would, as well, and it was best to strike down a weed before it had the chance to root too deeply: it had never been about the shipment itself.

Izaya had understood both's motivations but hadn't dug any deeper into that singular _why_: he looked forward to the ending the most, sat atop a roof's edge to see how the events would play out and just how thoroughly his expectations would prevail.

The rival group was utterly decimated and many men died.

Izaya awarded himself ten points for a correct prediction, and then considered the fact that perhaps it wasn't a series of words' "truth" that was most important but the value that another placed upon them. "Truth," after all, was a subjective context-because "love" should have been an objective emotion, but Izaya placed limitations upon it each and every time he stated with uptilted, vulpine eyes, "I love all humans _except _for Shizu-chan~"

Humans placed such a heavy emphasis upon Greater Ideas when, in the end, it all came down to words-and words were so easily twisted about to suit one's needs. Or pleasures.

:

"That must have been some nasty fall," the emergency room doctor murmured sympathetically as he winced slightly and began carefully bandaging the deep gash that ran along the brunette's forearm. It was a vicious-looking wound, but thankfully not bad enough that Izaya required stitches.

Izaya looked away from the doctor, mahogany-tinted eyes gleaming with unshed tears as he lightly bit his lip. The informant's voice was lilting, sweetly quiet in an almost feminine manner. "…it was, but it was _my fault_, though, for not being able to get away fast enough. I should know better than to be around him when he's in a bad mood, but it feels as if he's _always _in a bad mood whenever he sees me…"

The doctor paused in his ministrations, glancing up at Izaya with a new level of concern in his nearly-black eyes. "This was done to you purposefully?" he asked carefully, just beginning to suspect the dangerous topic that he was edging around.

"He didn't mean it," Izaya mumbled and blushed darkly, voice barely coherent, and the still-young doctor could hear the layered meanings over the rhythmic beeping of the hospital room's machines-the words almost seeming to be mumbled so as to make sure that the doctor wouldn't hear them and question Izaya further regarding their meaning. It wasn't the first time that the doctor had heard those words, had heard that tone of voice-no matter the fact that he had only been on the job for six months-and his heart skipped a beat at _knowing _what would have to follow after.

(And yet the words _were_ a stated fact: Shizuo _hadn't_ meant to hurt the brunette; he'd meant to kill him.)

In the end, words were words and it was up to each individual to take his or her own meaning, own truth, from them. And never was it proven so thoroughly as when the doctor finally excused himself with a gentle smile to go to the nurse's station; he informed the staff on duty that they would have to call in a social worker to report a case of domestic abuse in a same-sex couple household-

All while Izaya contentedly kicked his legs back and forth, back and forth once he was alone in the examination room: tears gone and blush almost immediately faded away, imagining how he'd set up this particular row of dominoes so that they might fall perfectly enough to get the end result that was absolutely necessary: Shizu-chan once more set-up and falling head-first down the hole to a bastardized Wonderland where truth and lies were intermittedly mixed until one became the other and vice versa, and the world stopped functioning in black and white and instead shifted to shadowed gray.

For truth functioned as a _gray_, and it was the only color that Izaya had ever been able to see.

He smiled brightly as he pictured the look of utter despair that would appear on the blonde beast's face when he realized what trap Izaya had set up him in this time around, the rumors that would fill Ikebukuro once word got out that the dear monster thrived on hurting those who were considered the most vulnerable.

:

There have always been many misconceptions about Orihara Izaya.

Most of these misconceptions were spread for various purposes by the man himself, but there have been many still that are spread by people who only look on the surface level, forgetting that the informant oftentimes enjoyed working in the layers _underneath_ the underneath. With a man who daily played life-and-death games, the man who thought in abstract symbols and in terms of price and value and the weight of purest gold, a person should have always kept in mind that nothing was _ever_ what it seemed: but people, at their heart, tended to be superficial, lazy creatures. And it was easier, in the end, to take things as they were.

There are many misconceptions about Orihara Izaya.

One such misconception was that he only dealt with the darker side of the law. But, like most things, this was very much not true (though it did happen to be _mostly_ true). His favorite employer has always been-and probably would always remain to be-Shiki, but that's mostly due to the fact that the yakuza boss allowed the crimson-eyed broker to indulge in his petty little games, watching from a distance as Izaya played the twisted role of a benevolent God: genius oftentimes came with eccentricities, and Izaya was good enough at his job that the yakuza was more than willing to pay his price-whatever form that pricetag might take, whether it be monetarily or allowing himself to play a specific role, to be drawn into a game of cat and mouse in which the mouse didn't know enough to run and hide and survive.

And if the mouse didn't know enough to _stay dead_…?

Well. Izaya had always been fond of games.

But there have always been misconceptions regarding Ikebukuro's top information broker, and it has always been these misconceptions that have amused Izaya the most-and it was with a bright smile on his face that the mahogany-eyed man skipped his way through the police station, the sight a surprisingly familiar one as he weaved his way through the various desks scattered about the room so that he might head immediately to the Captain's office.

"Good morning, Keishi-chou~!" the informant chirped brightly as he plopped down into one of the swivel chairs before the balding man's desk, immediately taking advantage of its range of motion to spin himself in a quick circle before coming to a stop. When he looked up at the officer, his smile was gone and an almost out of character expression-serious, frank, with an edge of glacial anger slipping into his usually (seemingly) lighthearted gaze. "I have some information for you, and I'd like it if you processed it as quickly as possible. Please~?"

The last was said with Izaya's usually sparkling smile, and the broker presented a thick manila folder to the police officer with a graceful flourish before settling back against the chair to make himself comfortable while the older man began flipping through the various papers that the informant had brought to him.

One page, however, managed to catch the man's attention; he glanced up, eyebrows raised. "I can see why you'd like this to be put through the system as soon as I can… Orihara Mairu and Kururi…? Your sisters, I presume?"

"Correct," Izaya stated succinctly before lazily steepling his fingers to rest his chin atop them. "I just came out of the ER not too long ago; the beast certainly did a number on them-lucky enough to not need stitches on their cuts, according to the doctor~! See, he says it right here~" He leaned forward, lanky body easily moving as a cat would in the constrained space, and pointed to the comments-and the signature-made by the doctor that Izaya had seen earlier that day. "While I understand that some beasts are just too stupid to learn to heel, this one is given free range through the city and needs to be put through obedience school before he goes about hurting anyone else. Ne, Keishi-chou~?"

The man sighed, leaning back against the chair as he looked down at the folder in his hands, mulling over his choices: there weren't many, and the officer knew what it was that he _needed_ to do, knew what was _right_. The "beast" in question was a repeat offender-and if things were getting serious that he felt the desire to harm innocent young girls…? He needed to be stopped.

Finally, after several moments of silence, the officer said: "I'll send out some patrol cars to pick him up to bring back to the station."

"Ah!" Izaya exclaimed happily, lightly clapping his hands together as his entire face lit up in excitement and malicious delight. "I always knew that I could count on you, Keishi-chou~!"

:

Heiwajima Shizuo sat on the edge of his cot, knees slightly spread as he clasped his hands together between them. His mouth was downturned in an absent sort of frown, brow furrowed in (much to Izaya's shock!) thought. The usual pair of blue-tinted sunglasses that never left the blonde's face was currently gone, confiscated by the police officer at the front of the station-taken, as much of Shizuo's belongings, for "safety's sake." He wondered, though, _whose_ safety those words had been referring to.

Izaya stepped into view, hands tucked comfortably in the pockets of his coat; when he saw Shizuo glance up, he smirked at the debt collector and spread his arms wide, turning in a tight circle on the heel of his foot before once more facing the cell that currently held Ikebukuro's Fortissimo.

"My, my~ I see that they've finally found a cage strong enough to keep the beast restrained," the informant taunted before stopping in front of the bars, just barely out of arm's reach. His smirk deepened and curled upwards, self-satisfaction edging its sharp corners as Izaya waited for Shizuo to snap-as he always did-and scream threats and obscenities at him.

That didn't happen.

For the first time in _years_, Shizuo deviated from the script that Izaya had memorized, always anticipated each and every time they clashed with one another: the blonde's mouth twisted in a wry, bitter manner and, meeting his enemy's blood-tainted gaze, simply asked, "_Why?_"

Izaya blinked.

_Why…?_

What a silly, useless question to ask!

He didn't need a reason _why_: Izaya did what he did because he could, because he wanted to, and because the look of abject despair on Shizuo's face made it all _worth it_. He hated the blonde debt collector, _always had_, and Izaya did what whatever he wanted because it made _him_ feel _good_. Why should there be any other motive? Izaya liked the way that Shizuo looked when he had been brought low, monstrous strength no longer a benefit for him-it was when the blonde debt collector's head hung heavy, forehead pressed to the ground in utter wretchedness…

_Aaaaah._

There was no better sight.

It didn't take long for Izaya to recuperate from his initial surprise that had come from Shizu-chan's question and, soon enough, he was standing lazily with one hip jutting out as the informant leaned against the wall opposite Shizuo's newest cage. "Because it was convenient for me to do so," he answered, typical sharp smile becoming that much more cruel with the added-on words: "And because you really are the perfect victim, Shizu-chan~"

Shizuo's hands curled into ineffectual, _useless_ fists, and even from several feet away Izaya could still hear the grinding from the blonde's teeth-also ineffectual, also _useless_, just as the blonde as a whole was. Izaya _hated_ Shizuo, hated everything about him, and it always managed to bring about a familiar sense of superiority within the informant whenever he tripped Shizuo up, standing back with a bright smile and a sparkle in his eyes as the blonde stumbled and fell, over and over and over again.

The only downside to the repetition of events was that Shizuo always, _always_ somehow gathered the _inner_ strength to pull himself back up again-no matter the height that he fell from. It was inhuman-in the _worst_ way possible-and Izaya hated seeing the depth of character that the blonde displayed each and every time he made to stand up again, and the brunette wanted nothing more than for Shizuo to _finally stay down_.

"You're a blood-sucking parasite, you fucking bastard," Shizuo whispered, voice harsh in the silence that fell between the two men. The cot creaked from the grip that he had upon it, metal straining and bending and giving way beneath the rage that was channeled within his hands-and Izaya did nothing but smile, knowing that he had once more won this round.

"Maa, maa, Shizu-chan~ Now's not the time for namecalling," Izaya scolded with a laugh, berating the taller man by shaking a pale finger at the caged beast. Another warning creak came from the cot, and smug self-satisfaction settled low in the brunette's belly: for now, he had everything that he could ever possibly want.

The contentment was not meant to last.

Shizuo's employer-but, more importantly, his _friend_-casually walked through the door that separated the holding cells from the main part of the police station; hands tucked into his suit's pockets, the debt collector quirked a slightly lopsided smile at his kouhai before eventually shaking his head in dry amusement. "Come on, Shizuo. It's time to go home," Tom said as he waved a policeman over to open the door to Shizuo's cell.

The blonde hunched in on himself, shoulders tensing as Shizuo glanced away, embarrassed that Tom was seeing him like this: there was a difference to him, though it was hard to explain, in using violence for a purpose-his job, though Shizuo was aware that it wasn't exactly a morally _right_ job-and in using violence for senseless pleasure, because he _wanted_ to hurt someone because that got him off. It was the latter that Shizuo was being accused of, no matter the fact that it was a lie, and it… hurt… having Tom see him behind bars.

"…can't… haven't made the bail…" he mumbled, fingers twisting nervously around one another.

Tom sighed and shook his head, smile becoming tender suddenly as he stepped forward and extended a hand towards the younger man. "We made it for you," he explained, continuing on with his words when Shizuo's head snapped upwards, amber eyes wide with shock. "Me and a couple of others-we know that you'd never hurt a kid, especially on purpose. We _know _you better than that. So let's go home; it's getting late, Shizuo."

Shizuo's expression was trembling, soft, and a happy smile began to move the blonde's mouth upwards as he stood and made his way towards the door of his cell, and Izaya knew _exactly _what it was that the blonde was thinking at that stretched-taut moment in time:

_There were people who believed in him._

A sour, dirty taste flooded the informant's mouth, and he scowled darkly before glancing away at the all-too-happy reunion between sempai and kouhai-and it was the _trust_that Tom had in Shizuo that made the sour taste that much worse.

As Tom and Shizuo moved past him, Tom stopped for a moment and turned to face the informant, looking at Izaya over the rim of his thin-framed glasses. His tone was almost conversational as he spoke, though the words he said aloud were most definitely _not_: "Go to hell, Orihara-san."

They left together, leaving Izaya looking at an empty jail cell and feeling an equally empty ache in his chest.

:

It took a while before Izaya was able to bring himself to head home.

He was smart enough, honest enough, with himself to realize that it was the term "home" that he had the most issue with: there was no "home," just an apartment that he had bought after his first several checks. It was a base of operations-his files, his documents, his computer-everything that he needed for his business was there. A kitchen, too, though he never really used it and a bed, as well, that he crashed in when he had enough energy to actually manage to get past the couch. A bathroom was tucked away down the hall: showerhead, bathtub, toilet, sink-all necessities and nothing to be considered indulgences.

Izaya's one true indulgence was always going into Ikebukuro and remaining in the city until he had managed to bait the blonde beast. Everything else paled because everything else wasn't nearly as enjoyable-nothing else had the same rush of adrenaline as dodging past vending machines and trashcans, breath quickening as the scream of rage echoed from right behind him.

_Run, run, as fast as you can!  
>Can't catch me, I'm-<em>

A perpetual game of tag: nothing changing, everything remaining the same.

The thoughts lingered in the back of Izaya's mind, no matter how hard the brunette tried to dispel them, and there was a faint downward turn of his mouth as he ordered a plate of ootoro from Simon; only partly paying attention to the words that he was ordering, it came close in him almost ordering one of the restaurant's strange creations-something that Izaya would have never done.

If he had been paying attention.

"It looks as if you have many things on your mind, I-za-ya," Simon commented idly in Russian as he patted down the rice into the sushi molds, large hands surprisingly graceful as he worked. He glanced up at the informant, face open and comfortable and familiar, inviting the slim brunette to join into the conversation.

Izaya snorted softly, leaning in to steal a piece of ootoro sashimi, greedily gobbling it up; with cheeks puffed out, he mumbled out a reply as he continued to keep an eye out for an opportunity to snag another slice of meat. "You need to have your eyes checked, Simon. You're beginning to see things, ne~ There's nothing on my mind."

"Ah? Is that so? That reminds me of one of the proverbs that my Grandmother would tell me back in Russia, I-za-ya. She would always say, _V tikhom omit cherti vodyatsa_."

The informant paused at that, quirking an eyebrow so that he might give the hulking man a look of disbelief. "…it's the still waters that are inhabited by devils?" he asked, repeating back the saying with an incredulous expression upon his face. "What's that even supposed to _mean_?" Simon had always been wise in his own sort of way, though even Izaya had to admit that the proverbs, the sayings, and the advice that the Russian sometimes offered was convoluted in such a way that they very rarely-if ever-made sense.

Simon smiled. "You say that there is nothing on your mind. In return, I tell you that it is the quiet that is always the most dangerous. Be careful to not allow that 'nothing' to grow too large or soon enough you'll have a 'something' that's beyond your ability to deal with."

Izaya glanced away at that, no longer hungry.

:

The brunette toed off his shoes in the narrow entryway to his apartment, nudging the black flats to make sure that they were lined up perfectly: even, organized. He shrugged out of his jacket then, hanging it up in the closet that was situated right next to the door, and then padded in socks towards the main part of his apartment. The clacking of computer keys did not greet him, and Izaya knew from that lack of sound that Namie had left for the day.

He stood there, in the middle of the room, with a bag that was filled with drinks and too much food-and the crimson-eyed man looked around, mind quiet in a way that hadn't been for months, and couldn't help but notice that the sound of his breathing was the loudest thing in his home. In his _apartment_.

_Knowing_ that there wouldn't be an answer, Izaya still couldn't resist calling out, "_Tadaima._"

There was no reply.

But Izaya already knew that that would happen.

:

The sprawling metropolis was filled to the brim with trains and subways, taxi cabs, and destinations that happened to only be a hop-skip-and-a-jump away from the thick pedestrian traffic that choked the streets that criss-crossed through the city; there was very little need to learn how to drive in a place that's public transportation became its lifeblood, but there was a satisfaction, an aspect of control that came along with the knowledge that one _could_ drive a car. There was a contentment in the fact that, no matter the place, a person would never be stranded, but it was the appeal of _Anything you can do, I can do better_ that had first coaxed Izaya out of Tokyo, out of Ikebukuro, and into the country where streets were relatively empty and roads stretched out far and wide and a person could travel upon it for long hours without ever coming across another human being.

It was Eliot's perfect _Waste Land_ where _roots that clutch, what branches grow out of his stony rubbish _and clung to the edges of the black asphalt: the forest the only thing that a driver would come across when the cities were left far behind and the only things that remained were the sky above and the earth below.

Izaya had, once upon a time, friends who lived out in the country, and they had been only too happy to have their city friend visit-never once realizing that they were being used: the high schooler had both wanted to learn how to drive a car and he had also wanted to know others from the out-of-the-way places to learn how to mimic their mannerisms, their ways of speaking, so that he could more easily fool others online.

It hadn't taken long to adopt their speech patterns-mainly because Izaya was a chameleon of the worst sort-but it was the prospect of learning how to _drive_ that had him staying with these "friends" for the summer break.

And it was there that Izaya had fallen in love with the speed, the _control_-

There was something satisfying about driving down the highway through one of the towns that littered the countryside-not quite a city and yet still larger than a town-speeding above the limit posted, eyes wide as the car began to approach an onramp to the same highway that he was currently driving upon; and, _there_, the onramp would merge into the lane that Izaya was currently in and there was _another car coming_ and there was an element of danger because both cars were close, so close to one another, but then-ah, _then_ Izaya would shift from fourth gear into fifth and press down with unrestrained force upon the accelerator-and _then_:

His car would gain even more momentum, hitting 130 km/h before shooting past the incoming vehicle, and all the while the engine would roar and the wind would scream and the speedometer would finally reach 160 km/h. Speed and danger and control: and the satisfaction in seeing the other driver's startled face as Izaya would barrel past and _knowing_ that they had not slipped in front of him-and that all that stretched before him was empty, peopleless road that was _his_.

It was a competition for ownership that no one else ever realized that they were participating in.

The thought of "losing" this competition was one that Izaya could not bring himself to contemplate. And so he gunned the engine, letting out the throttle as the car practically flew down the highway: faster and faster still, driving until the car barely had any gas remaining, and with head tilted back and _laughing_ for no apparent reason at all other than the fact that he felt _free_.

Despite being twenty-one forever, it had still been years since Izaya had last been allowed to get behind the wheel of a car-and it was in brief, almost _epiphanic_ moments as the informant was going about his day that he realized that he… missed the sense of freedom. He did not know why he felt such things; it was enough that he _did_, and Izaya had never been one too look too closely at his own emotions, his own motivations.

It was enough.

:

Dawn found Izaya typing away at his laptop, easily sprawled over the cushions of his sofa; he had disregarded the use of his desktop for the night mostly because it lacked less comfort-and he felt itchy for some reason, the need to move from spot to spot to spot biting at his subconscious in an almost jittery way, leaving him constantly shifting positions as the night wore on.

Early morning brought Namie stepping through the door after letting herself in by using the spare key that Izaya had given to her when she had first started working for him. It didn't take long before she spotted Izaya lazily taking up as much room as possible on the couch, and an expression of distaste dusted over her face: there and gone again, like the constantly shifting shadows cast upon the earth by skittering clouds high, high above. "You're up early," she commented neutrally as she left her jacket and shoes near the door before finally gathering the necessities that she'd need for the day and heading towards her workstation.

"I was actually feeling _productive _today," Izaya shot back, smirk as sharp as his flickblade's edge as he watched the woman settle into her chair. Continuing, he waved a hand flippantly in the air, the only part of him that she could see over the sofa's backrest. "If you haven't eaten yet, I still have leftovers from last night that you can have."

Namie snorted, ignoring the hand and the offer as she answered, "I'm not hungry."

Izaya laughed at the short reply, smile sharpening and turning reptilian as his attention once more returned to the computer screen before him, slowing his scrolling as he came across forum posts about yesterday's arrest of the beast and the subsequent charges being made against him. "Ah, well! More for me, ne~ And, besides, I hadn't wanted to say anything, but it _does _look as if you've gained a bit of weight recently, Namie-san…"

There was silence for several long moments, broken only until Izaya's fingers began working over the keyboard with the ever familiar _clack-clack-clack_of him typing out yet another rumor-or another slip of the truth, depending on his mood-that would make someone's life a living hell.

:

Izaya had decided from an early age that there was no point in doing _anything_ unless a person was able to do it with flair; even if no one else ever saw the tricks that a person was capable of pulling, at least there was still the satisfaction of knowing that the show had still been performed-even if it was before an audience of one.

It was one of the reasons why he had learned how to wield his flickblade, letting the weapon dance between his fingers in a deadly display of grace and power-striking quick, always on target, moving so fast that the naked eye could never see the blade itself, just the liquid shimmer of sun-on-steel. He was an artist with his weapon, painting his canvases in blood and pain, but his opponents were always, _always _left in awe-and fear-of his skill.

The fear was what Izaya liked best of all, however: the faint sheen of tears that came over their eyes as they looked at him and realized that he could move, strike out with his blade, and they would never see the blow coming-never _feel _the impact until it was too late and the informant had already done what damage he wished. It was then that Izaya's victims felt a true sense of vulnerability, and it was that glimpse into humanity's most gaping weakness that continuously left Izaya giddy-hours, sometimes even days after a fight.

But, _oh_, even through it all, despite it all, the _showmanship _was what Izaya truly thrived on most of all.

He was his own best audience, but there still remained several others that the informant enjoyed performing in front of-_for_, in some cases, or _because of_ for one particular man. (Though Izaya would only term the beast "man" on the best of days, which were few and far between.) But it wasn't until the next time that Izaya slipped into Ikebukuro to tweak the beast's tail that the informant realized just _how much_ his performances relied on Shizuo-if not through the blonde's participation, then at least through his awareness of them. Then at least through his _acknowledgement_ of them. It took two to tango, and the brunette had finally come to the realization that performing only for himself wasn't enough anymore. Not when the protozoan had been his best customer-audience member and antagonist all in one package-for _years_. Perhaps since the first time they had met and Shizu-chan had stood opposite him and had said, "I hate your guts."

It hit hard and fast and left Izaya breathless:

The crimson-eyed informant merrily traipsed down one of the streets that criss-crossed through Ikebukuro, one of the many veins that fed the city its life's blood, and his feet skipped over cracked pavement as he hummed a recent song from some pop idol or other beneath his breath.

He waited in anticipation, however, waited for that ever-familiar roar of bestial, feral fury; he waited for the vending machines that he'd have to duck, already mentally planning out the duck and sway to keep them _just barely _away from him, inches from squashing him flat-a taunt that he'd never have to point out aloud but a taunt that Shizu-chan would instinctively understand. He'd plan, too, the insults that he'd toss at the protozoan over his shoulder, words that he'd be able to get out between cackles-words aimed to infuriate the beast even further, a situation set-up to lure Shizu-chan into as long a chase as possible with Izaya being the carrot at the end of the stick that the beast just could not manage to catch.

But it was as Izaya was skipping down the sidewalk, gleefully plotting out his next encounter with Shizu-chan-it was then that he caught sight of the beast on the opposite side of the road from him. The debt collector was walking with his boss and fellow employee, Tom moving at an easy pace a little bit before the two blondes and with Vorona strolling with predatory intent at Shizu-chan's side.

Izaya didn't like it.

They were too bland, too dull and boring to be near Ikebukuro's beast; Tom was faded, laid back in the worst way possible-no ambition, no real drive, content to lean back and let life move around him without putting in any real participation or effort into it. He was a spectator of the worst sort imaginable because he was _passive_; the informant had heard rumors that the dreadlocks wearing man was a calming influence on Shizuo, a person who helped the beast control his temper. Izaya thought differently: the man was bleached of all color; he didn't have enough _presence _to affect Shizu-chan one way or another.

And the Russian… ah! She was nearly as bad, but in a completely different manner. She was robotic, dull and dry and a caricature, not even fully fleshed-out into a _real_ person. She was flat, two-dimensional; she was _boring_, and Izaya hated her-hated her and hated Tom-and _hated_ the way that she said something to the beast of Ikebukuro and _hated_ the way that Shizu-chan's brows furrowed in what appeared to be concern. He _hated_ the way that he shook his head in reply, in how he leaned over her and rested a hand on the curve of one boney shoulder. He _hated_ the way that the beast suddenly turned serious, _hated _the darkening of the man's eyes and the way that the girl frowned a bit in thought before finally nodding, apparently agreeing with what Shizu-chan had said.

He _hated_ the moment of _responsibility_ that Shizu-chan displayed, a startling glimpse into an aspect of the beast that Izaya didn't want to think about, and he hated the easy camaraderie between all three as Tom glanced over his shoulder and said something that caused a shining flash of teeth-a _smile_, bright and easygoing and _relaxed_ in a way that Izaya had never before seen-_and he hated it all_, especially when Shizu-chan laughed and the soft sounds managed to make their way through the hubbub of traffic to settle around the informant like a stifling, unwelcome blanket.

What Izaya _hated_ most of all, however, was how he saw the beast's nostrils suddenly flare wide-as if catching a scent on the faintest of breezes-and then turn his head to look straight at the brunette across the street. A fire caught in the blonde's gaze, and he _burned_ in a way that his companions could never hope to match, and Izaya tensed, readying himself to move to avoid any objects that the beast might find to throw at him.

But then Tom said something and Vorona's hand moved towards a pocket-maybe to pull out a weapon, maybe not-and Shizuo replied with something to his sempai that caused Tom to look surprised and then _pleased_, proud and understanding in a way that shouldn't be possible because Shizuo was a beast and didn't deserve to be understood, before reaching out to still the girl's hand, aborting the gesture and shaking his head. She paused, head tilting to the side, and it looked as if Shizuo took ahold of the opportunity to begin what Izaya suspected was a lecture.

Izaya was left forgotten.

He watched the three, watched the easy relationship that he had never noticed growing between the set of sempai and kouhai, employer and employees, _friends_; the informant who had prided himself on knowing everything that went on in Ikebukuro found himself bewildered by the scene that lay before him, wondering when he had become so blind as to look over this development-glanced away from the chance to ruin the deep-seated trust before it had the chance to even develop and grow as strong as it appeared to be _now_. How had he been so blind as to _miss this change_? This deepening companionship left Izaya the odd man out, standing on the opposite side of a street from the beast of Ikebukuro-unharmed, _safe_, in a way that he had _never _been with Shizuo.

In one easy move, they had dismantled the components of the show that Izaya put on for the world-took away his favorite audience member, made him the sole performer when every story needs both a protagonist and an antagonist, and Izaya now found himself without his own-a protagonist needed friction, a challenge to overcome, in order to make a story truly great. There was nothing now, and the mahogany-eyed man felt his hands curl into useless fists as the trio began to walk away, and Izaya had to fight, _hard_, the urge to snap out,

_He was mine to play with before either of you ever realized he existed!_

* * *

><p>- TBC -<em><br>_


End file.
